““The crows were looking very much the worse for wear. Their black suits were dusty and torn; the maid at the Pension Maria had burnt every one of their shirts as she ironed them. Mr. Trapwood’s face was covered in lumps where the bites of the tabernid fly had gone septic, and both their stomachs had become boiling caverns of agony and wind. “But we can still do it,” said Mr. Trapwood, punching the table. “We’ll try downriver this time. Those houses by the fishing place. The people there look poor enough; they should take some notice of the reward.” Mr. Low nodded and made his way stealthily toward the door. “If you’re thinking of getting to the lavatory before me, don’t try,” said Mr. Trapwood. “I’m going first.” “No, you aren’t. I need it!” “ You need it…!” Shoving and jostling, the two detectives raced each other down the corridor.””
